The Great V-Card Caper
by PisForParanoid
Summary: After a wild party, Shelly seems to have misplaced her virginity and it's up to Stan to figure out who stole it. Multiple pairings, mainly Style, Creek, Bunny.
1. 1 A Guilt Trip to Poorsap, Colorado

The Great V-Card Caper

**Summary:** After a wild party, Shelly seems to have misplaced her virginity and it's up to Stan to figure out who stole it. Multiple pairings, mainly Style, Creek, Bunny.

**Pairings: **(main) Style, Creek, Bunny (side) Candy, Stolovan, Dip, Shellyx?

**Disclaimer: **No ownage. South Park is Matt and Trey's lovechild.

**Note: **I've got this story and another one about the Goth kids coming up; both multi-chaptered fics that I'll be trying to update once a week. Support is very much appreciated.

* * *

Stanley Marsh was not an only child.

He got hand-me-downs and speeches that had been perfected with a second chance. He was 'my little boy' or 'my baby' when his innocence was being challenged and was still 'Stanley' on a daily basis because the 'ey' sound took off five years.

It seemed that the more years that passed, the more eager the world was about reminding him that yes, he had a sister and yes, she was older than him. She got to drive first, she got out of school first and she had a wild party first.

A wild party that _he _had been left to clean up under the all-powerful hand of blackmail in the shape of the stupid drunk activities he and his friends – distinctly those of the Jewish variety – had been digitally recorded doing. It was inevitable, though he still considered it very low and very cruel.

It was a very Shelly thing to do.

Alternatively, caving in to blackmail and whimpering in the back of his throat while rounding up broken glass bottles was a very Stan thing to do. He didn't need to face the wrath of homophobia from his father, though he was fairly sure Randy already had a hunch with the way he made sure to give 'the talk' to both Kyle and his son at the same time. The basis of coming out was still enough to shake the boy's world, however, and he wasn't taking any risks when it came to controversial topics that could turn political in seconds.

As his mind spoke an inner monologue of the wonderful world of siblings – (Ike would never do this, Karen would never do this, fuck Cartman) – the jaded boy simply didn't have the mental capacity to catch the nearing stomps and shrill screaming heading his way. He had just woken up ten minutes ago, after all; how was he expected to be on-guard already?

Fortunately, he didn't have much time to waste processing the impending doom when it so kindly decided to greet him with a slap to the face.

"Hey! What the hell?"

He felt the warm stain on his cheek, holding his tongue and rubbing it as if it might blend into his normal skin tone if he did so long enough. He turned his attention forward – where he really should _not_ have, _man _did he regret that – to see his sister sniffling and sobbing over a prominent frown. It wouldn't have been such a horrifying sight had she been dressed in something more than a brassiere and matching panties.

"Ugh, Shelly," he shielded his eyes; his poor, unsuspecting eyes, "Put some clothes on, you look like a-"

A hand was up and smacked the sense right out of his noggin. He didn't know if he had previously decided on 'whore' or 'slut', but he supposed it really didn't matter anymore.

"Shut _up_, turd."

Lips pressed firmly together and jaw locked tight, Stan didn't think he could shut anymore up. In the silence, he diverted his eyes and got back to trash duty. He wasn't about to tangled in whatever stupid soap-opera his sister lived in, no matter how bare and vulnerable she was. Maybe if she couldn't still beat the tar out of him, even as she was crumbling into a sobbing mess, then he would have felt a bit more obligated to help.

Or maybe it was the red mark on his cheek talking.

"I can't believe this," she choked out between scraggly breaths, sucking in wafts of pity, "I can't _fucking _believe this."

Kyle would be all over this, Stan decided. Kyle was a morning person and a people-person; someone who could speak easily in the face of a finger on a trigger and someone who could speak softly enough to mimic the soothing nature of a warm cup of tea.

What Shelley needed was a warm cup of tea.

"I can't even remember..,"- Stan bit back a dig about '_oh,_ but she remembers to record my friends being stupid'; he didn't feel like earning a matching mark on his other cheek_ - _"Why can't I fucking _remember_?"

Either he was channeling resident snark-machine Craig Tucker or he was just eager for a smack-down like no other because Stan couldn't help but mutter out a quick "because you were _wasted_" before turning on his heel and heading for the stairs as an escape.

Surprisingly, he was left unharmed.

* * *

Once the large objects were taken care of, it was up to Stan to vacuum and scrub and maybe shampoo the stench of hormones out of the carpet. There was something really funky going on in those weird off-yellow splotches sprinkling the living room and no matter how much his gag reflex protested, he knew that he would be the one to see them meet their end.

As he descended the stairs in what seemed like slow-motion, Stan took note of the emptiness that haunted the open area. He hadn't heard the slam of a single door since he had disappeared upstairs and was almost compelled to go searching for his broken sister just to make sure she was still alive.

Almost.

He was still rather resentful about the whole 'blackmail' situation and stood by his opinion that a college kid could clean their own damn messes. Not to mention the camera that had been in his room just waiting for him to do something that could be used against him – yup, Shelly was definitely on her own.

So much on her own, in fact, that she almost radiated a lonely feeling from her fetal position on the couch. Stan held his own, however, refusing to cave in because he had already determined that he wasn't helping her anymore than he had to.

A few footsteps into the living room and he could have sworn the stench had gotten worse. It wasn't just raging hormones and stale sex; there was a distinct odor of desperateness in the air that slithered down his throat and gave a nice squeeze to his heart. He stayed strong; he wasn't going to give in that easily.

"S-Stan."

Oh, no no no. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't recall ever paying for a guilt trip heading to Poorsap, Colorado. He didn't accept charity; Shelly could just take her cracking voice and sad sniffles and shove it up her-

"_Stanley?_"

Oh, Jesus Christ.

"I'm almost done, Shell, I promise. Just give me an hour and Mom and Dad won't know the difference-"

"It's not about the house, s-stupid!"

Well, shit. If this wasn't about the house then he supposed cleaning supplies could find themselves comfortable on the floor, away from his touch. He sighed - chest growing heavier because _damn_, he wasn't suited for soap operas, that was more of a Cartman thing – and dropped everything to take a seat beside his sister.

"I-I don't remember anything from last night," her voice was shaking, trying to stay solid and rude like her default tone demanded of her, "All I know is that some asshole.."

Stan stayed silent; afraid to make a wrong move. Even if she was in a deteriorating state, Shelly tended to swing her moods around and laugh as the victim got a face-full of confusion. She could easily go from sobbing to screeching in two seconds flat.

"..S-Some asshole..," she was trying, that much was obvious; her voice beginning to whimper and melt into low hums, "Stole it."

Oh. Stan took in a breath, unsure if he should make another sound because she was already giving him a look that was pleading for answers. He didn't want to be wrong – that would only earn a smack – but if he was right, he also might earn some kind of harm. She was delicate right now; the remains of the little wilted flower his mother had always insisted she was when explaining sensitivity to Stan.

"Stole...what?" He inquired, voice resembling a mouse with it's quiet sound and squeaky pitch.

Her eyes darkened and he knew immediately that it was game over. His back stiffened and his knees swung to get him on his feet, though he stumbled up and fell back on his bottom in the seconds that she allowed him to quiver.

He hadn't even written a will yet and knowing that Cartman would figure out a way to get all of his cool stuff was out of the question. He didn't even know what his last words would be, let alone how he would say them. He had so much to live for; dying by his sister's hand was just down-right embarrassing.

Thoroughly offended, Shelly seethed at his obliviousness and growled in rage. He could have sworn her skin turned a nice shade of beet-red – which he secretly hoped was a sign that she had revealed her true form as a demon and was being sucked back down to Hell – before belting out in a boom:

"My virginity!"

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh _fuck. _


	2. 2 As If Peru Wasn't Enough

The Great V-Card Caper

**Summary:** After a wild party, Shelly seems to have misplaced her virginity and it's up to Stan to figure out who stole it. Multiple pairings, mainly Style, Creek, Bunny.

**Pairings: **(main) Style, Creek, Bunny (side) Candy, Stolovan, Dip, Shellyx?

**Disclaimer: **No ownage. South Park is Matt and Trey's lovechild.

**Note: **So there's these things called 'deadlines'. I've decided that they're not so simple. My apologies.

* * *

Stanley Marsh lived in South Park: the oddity capital of the world.

Madagascar had nothing on this mountain town. He had seen giant guinea pigs, a giant Barbra Streisand robot, a stoner towel – really, there was nothing that could honestly make his eyes widen anymore. Except for the fact that someone had been drunk and desperate enough to pick his sister for a racy Friday night.

Really, it was beyond him.

Regardless of his disbelief, he had a reputation to uphold and he'd be damned if he was the whispered inside-joke of the halls when he arrived back to school on Monday. In the name of every Stan Marsh – and okay, Shelly _kind of_ deserved to be avenged – he had to take matters into his _own _hands.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, Kyle isn't home for another two hours."

A slight grumble under his breath, Stan nodded and took that as his cue to reunite with the sidewalk. It wasn't a chilly morning today – or rather, it _was_ but weather was never really "cold" in South Park. He actually had a theory that with puberty came an extra layer of blubber to keep the sensitive folks from freezing to death. Kyle hadn't been so sure, but he didn't really have any other explanation to how twigs like Tweek could wear nothing but a dress shirt and still manage to escape hypothermia.

A heavy sigh left the print of a ghost in the air before him; he wondered if the mystery guy was a smoker. Of all the assholes he knew, most of them were known to ride the nicotine stick if only on occasion. He toyed with the notion that the bitterness had literally become a part of them – he'd have to run that one by Kyle later.

Kyle; goddammit, where was that Jew when you needed him?

"Probably in a chess tournament or something," Stan mused, kicking at a lone rock that somehow found itself wandering on the pavement.

Okay, whatever, he could do this without the brainiac. It couldn't be that hard: he knew everyone and their grandmother in this town. He just had to sift through the bad apples and intimidate the crap out of them – which, for the record, would have been his job anyway had he consulted Kyle.

A swift turn on his heel and this Marsh was ready to thwart all evil in the world. Good cop, bad cop; hell, he'd be cop of the goddamn year. All he had to do was find a douchebag, get them to say sorry to his sister and shove it in Kyle's face.

But where to start? He sighed again, a trail of breath creating a fading line pointing straight ahead to a dull brown house. Lucky for him, an asshole was sure to reside there.

* * *

"Marsh."

Cue glaring; lightning sparks flying between gazes. Oh, how he did not want to be here. Just the air around this asshole was choking his good-guy lungs; he'd have to keep this minimal for the sake of his ego.

"Tucker."

Boy howdy, that name left a sour taste in his mouth. He was met with a blank stare, which was disappointing if the dirt in his look was taken into account, and an equally monotone 'what'.

"I have business with you," he put simply.

Craig stared at him - that eery stare that feigned either concentration or lack there of , he could never quite figure it out – before pulling the door back a bit; the signal that entrance was permitted. Stan slid off his shoes and entered without a word.

If he was honest, he would say Craig had a nice house. He would say that the walls were a homey color, that the minimal furniture had a sleek look to it and that from the glimpse he saw of the kitchen, he was more well-off than initially given credit for. But if Stan was a prideful Marsh, he would say that the ceiling was stupidly high, that there were enough pictures to imply that holes in the wall had to be hidden and that it smelled vaguely of guinea pig.

Or maybe that was just Craig.

It really didn't matter as he held all thoughts of the décor to himself and instead followed the stoic up the stairs and down the hallway. Craig paused outside of his door, maybe remembering something or feeling that drama was always necessary around guests: "Don't do anything weird. My friends are here."

Feeling rather put in his place, Stan made a resolution to do something weird out of spite.

The door opened and he was greeted with an overwhelming scent of sweetness: cookies, a huge plate of them sitting on the lap of Clyde Donovan. Beside him was Tweek, who was lying on the bed and peeking out from under the covers. There was some kind of tension between them, the blond looking annoyed with Clyde as he munched happily on a cookie.

"She s-said they were – _gah_- for everyone," he muttered lowly, pulling down the comforter to show a bare shoulder.

Oh. Stan felt a part of him drop – he was almost sure it was his stomach, but it might have been his appetite – and suddenly was struck with a severe need to get out. Right now. Maybe if he just slid a little more to the left, he was practically hidden by Craig anyway, and ran as fast as he could-

"Hey, Marsh," Clyde greeted him between chews, "Weird, I thought you hated us."

Oh no, this wasn't fair. Not only was he brought to attention, but now Tweek was looking at him with this pained, worried look that just flashed him back to those stupid times when Kenny decided to die and the twitchy blond had almost died a number of times at their hands. Yup, he was definitely chained here now.

"I don't..._hate_ you," he had to be careful, Craig was watching him with a weird protective look and damnit, him and Tweek had a _thing _didn't they, "I just forget about you sometimes."

Tweek dropped his shoulders for a moment, seemingly relieved at the explanation. Of course, it didn't last long for a second later he was picking at his fingers and arms and questioning his visibility and existence and his whole life suddenly became a cover-up injected into his brain at night. Somehow, Stan was feeling drained just watching the other two attempt to calm the rapid paranoia being spat out.

"Tweek, you're real," Clyde said soothingly, pinching at the shaking boy's arm, "See? You wouldn't have felt that if you weren't really here."

"P-people say they die in dreams all the time," Stan briefly wondered if Tweek's mouth literally had a motor and if so what the horsepower would have been, "They say- gah!- th-they _say_- nngh!"

The blond was getting frustrated now, balling up his hands in the covers and pulling at them to substitute for the wild mane on his head. It made him look like a lion, Stan decided, which was strangely fitting with how much of a roar he could make. It was high-pitched and wimpy, but Tweek had something of a cowardly-lion appeal to him.

"Hey," it was Craig's turn; his voice strangely cool as he spoke, "Shut up."

Tweek paused in his fit to stare at him; head tilted in confusion as he listened. Craig took the moment without hesitation, grabbing hold of the other's hand and pressing it to rest just above he blond's collarbone. Tweek whined quietly, eyes flickering from his fingers to Craig's blank expression.

"You're alive," it was short but not blunt for once; the stoic boy stretched out Tweek's hand to point at a small scar below a knuckle, "You got this from that time we tried to make a tire swing and it broke when you got on it."

Tweek nodded, uncurling from the stiff position he was in and making the covers fall off his shoulders, revealing that he was topless. Stan tried not to look - truthfully he wasn't so much interested as he was just plain curious as whether he would see the boy's ribs - out of a sort-of respect for Craig. His eyes tended to travel, however, and he found out quickly that Tweek was little but skin and bone.

"Nngh – but what if that's when my memory got swiped?" He was still vibrating a bit, though considerably calmer.

The response was almost instant, the Tucker pushed up a corner of his bangs and pointed to a white line on his forehead: "This is from the time we fought each other."

"Wh-when I won?" There was a hint of a smile on his lips and Stan could see a stain of amusement in the blond's eyes; he wasn't being paranoid. He wasn't scared anymore, he was instead entertaining the idea – testing Craig's ability to twist his nonsense into a boring square of logic.

Craig didn't hesitate and nodded, "When you won."

Tweek smiled, his boyfriend still wearing a rather bland expression, and Stan felt his insides churn. He felt out of place, as if this was a movie he was watching but his mother and Shelly weren't here to bawl and squeal over it.

Oh, Shelly. Right.

"Hey Tucker," his voice shook; reluctant. It was a cute moment, he had to admit, and a part of him wanted to just watch with a faint smile because he had never seen Tweek in any state other than panic or frustration. But he was here for a reason and if he didn't bring it up now, he never would.

Craig turned to him without a word and Stan could pick out the smallest shift in his face. It might have been a smile, or maybe a glare; he wasn't really sure. Either way, something had gotten the wordless wonder to change his mood and now Stan had to be extra careful because hell if he knew what that mood even was.

"You didn't like..screw my sister, did you?"

Immediately after speaking, he felt dumb. There was a silent exchange between the friends in the room: Clyde straightening up a bit in surprise, Tweek glancing over with slight amusement and Craig blinking condescendingly. Yeah, definitely a dumb question.

"Does it _look _like I screwed your sister?" He retorted, taking extra care to gesture to the blond next to him.

"No," he had to admit his mistake now; damn that Tucker, "But..I don't know. You seem like you'd just fuck whatever weird thing comes your way."

Okay, bad. Even he had to admit that was a stupid way to word things. If Kyle were here, which he really _should have_ been, then he would have smacked him right upside the head and taken over because words were his specialty. But of course, Kyle wasn't here, which left Stan in an unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar people and the sudden need to be defensive when called out on his stupidity.

Yeah, probably shouldn't have said that.

He was seeing that sweet relaxation melt right off of Tweek's face to reveal the same panic he was used to seeing. From the way his frown seemed extra displeased, Craig looked just about done with him.

"Marsh. Out."

"No, okay, that was stupid, I'm sorry. Really, like, you just seem to dig the weirdos like Thomas or Tweek or I don't know, Jimmy maybe-"

"Dude!" Clyde was handling Tweek, who had let out a strangled screech of sorts at the mention of a close friend of their circle. Craig took that as an okay to get up and start physically moving Stan out the door. Time was running low, he needed to make his reason known and quick.

"Alright, whatever, that's not the point. Just..you know that house party? The one my sister threw last night?"

Craig paused in his shoving and gave him a look. It seemed painfully uncaring but he was somehow listening. Tweek had gone quiet also, giving Clyde some time to breathe.

"Well some asshole took her virginity and she can't remember who it was so..," his words died in his throat. He prayed that Tweek didn't take that the wrong way.

"Marsh, do you listen to yourself?" Craig was back to the snark.

"Alright, fine, I get it," he was moving to leave but was held in place with a hand on his arm. Craig Tucker was making a point; he wasn't allowed to leave.

"Tweek is _shirtless_, in _my _bed and you think it makes sense to ask if I slept with your sister last night."

God, he was doing that 'here's why you're stupid' thing again. As if Peru wasn't enough.

"You're just the first asshole I thought of, alright?"

"Have I ever had a girlfriend?"

"Dude, I don't know! You liked Bebe's boobs so I just thought-"

"You _thought_. You never asked or paid attention, you just picked me out of the whole class of boys and thought 'yeah, he seems like the type a guy that'd have a one-night stand with my sister.'"

"Jesus _Christ_, I get it, Craig. I'll leave, alright?"

"No no, wait!" Clyde was up from his seat before the bed, his hands splayed out in front of him and grabbing at anything Stan-related. His hand managed to hook a front pocket and before he knew it, Stan was up-close and personal with a goofy grinning Donovan.

"Dude, I'll help you out," it was an excited offer that seemed out of place without a tail wagging or the cheerful perk of furry ears.

"Yeah, no thanks," he was attempting to back away, tugging his clothing back from the tightening grip of stubbornness, "Kyle's probably home by now, I'll just ask him to help."

"Oh, well I'll go with you, then," it was more of a statement than a question and with the way the couple was wasting no time with devouring the leftover cookies, Stan didn't think he was getting any reinforcements.

"But don't you want to hang out with Craig?" It was weird, advocating for one of his least favorite people, "You were having a good time and all."

"No, not really. I really only wanted the cookies," he leaned closer, making up for whatever space Stan had managed to create, and whispered loudly "Between you and me, I think the gay is rubbing off on me."

"It was already there," Craig called blandly from his bed, sliding under the covers and threatening to shove Tweek off. The blond made frightened whimpers but smiled playfully, shoving Craig away.

"Look, Clyde," He was going to reject the boy and tell him rather firmly that a detective could only have one sidekick and no jock stood a chance against chess-master Kyle, but the way the couple was getting a bit too friendly in the background was convincing him otherwise.

He had been a third wheel a number of times – between watching Butters flounder around Kenny and his former girlfriend make out with Cartman - and knew that it was sorta cute-ish until you're stuck yelling at them to pass the salt without knowing if they can even hear you over the 'ahh' and 'yeah, just like that's.

He felt the awkward pain and felt a change of heart as the subtle sound of sheets moving prompted him to mutter a 'fine' and guide the blockhead down the stairs and through the front door.

He'd have to start keeping a tab for Kyle because man, did he owe him for this.


End file.
